Well-Stirred & Wondering

From my ongoing poetry series — reflections of resilience, love, and quiet becoming.

Some pieces of strength aren’t loud. They don’t shine. They simply endure. This poem came from one of those days — when motherhood feels like both miracle and marathon, when grace feels thin, and yet we keep going anyway.

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Today, I am heavy with the weight of doing it all.

Not because I hate it—no—

I love these children with a ferocity that defies reason.

But I am tired.

Tired of being the only steady hand,

the only warm meal,

the only voice that whispers comfort

and gets met not with gratitude,

but with frustration,

raised voices,

demands for more, or better, or different.

It stings deeper today—

knowing that he,

the man who helped create this family,

feels no pull, no duty, no desire

to honor the mother of his children.

Not even on a day meant for mothers.

Not even with a simple gesture

to remind them I am worth celebrating.

He walks lighter than me,

freer than me,

and I carry the bruises of his absence

in every forgotten lunchbox,

every slammed door,

every bedtime where I am too exhausted to try again.

I am angry.

Not because I want to be without them—

I could never.

But because he chose to be without us.

Because he gets to be nothing,

and I must be everything.

And the more I pour in—

the more I try to give them a better life,

the more they seem to throw it back

with sharp tones and hardened hearts.

It breaks me.

Not in one dramatic collapse—

but in a thousand slow, invisible ways.

I want to throw in the towel.

But there is nowhere to throw it.

No one waiting to catch it.

So I fold it—

No one offering to share the weight.

gently, bitterly, bravely—

and carry on.

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Note:

Each poem in this series is a fragment of becoming— a way to honor the quiet, uncelebrated parts of womanhood, motherhood, and healing.

They are not calls for pity, but echoes of perseverance.

May they remind anyone reading: you’re not alone in the carrying.

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Well-Stirred Reflection:

Strength doesn’t always look like winning. Sometimes it looks like showing up—again and again — even when your soul feels threadbare. Even when the towel you wanted to throw becomes the one you use to wipe your tears.